


Classified

by lindsey_grissom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 06:57:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindsey_grissom/pseuds/lindsey_grissom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a couple of boxes in an old friend's house, John keeps a few secrets about his service history.  It's self preservation, of course, he wouldn't want the Holmes brothers to know everything about him from the start.  When Mycroft comes home tired and unable to talk about it one day too many, John decides it's time to reveal all.  He's just going to have a little fun with it first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Classified

**Author's Note:**

> Wherein certain liberties are taken with John's deployment history, there is liberal use of fluff, one casual reference to sexual acts and Mycroft won't look at his direct superior the same way again.

It isn't until the third time in as many weeks that Mycroft comes home with tired red rimmed eyes, tightly sealed lips and so much tension in his shoulders that it takes John almost an hour of gentle pressure and soft kisses to his neck for Mycroft to relax, that John decides enough is enough.

He doesn't ask Mycroft if it would help to talk about it; he knows that it would and that Mycroft would dearly love to, that isn't the problem.

He slides a hand up into the short hairs at the base of Mycroft's skull and spreads his fingers wide, cupping his head. Mycroft groans out an aborted breath and lets his head drop back into John's palm.

"Thank you John." Mycroft says an hour later. They're cuddled (and that is the only word that John can think of to describe the comfortable way they're tangled together) up on the sofa, John tucked into the corner of the seat, Mycroft's body between his legs. John looks away from the TV and rubs his nose into the back of the other man's head.

"For what?" Mycroft smells like the outrageously expensive shampoo he insists on buying despite John's continued arguments against wasteful spending (he doesn’t care how much Mycroft makes in a year, there is absolutely no need to spend £100 on a wooden spoon they've never even used).

Mycroft doesn't answer and John isn't sure if the other man has fallen asleep or if this is one of those things that John's supposed to just know. He thinks it over just in case and if he's honest with himself then he knows what Mycroft means, he just doesn’t think he deserves the gratitude; now he's made the choice he feels guilty that he didn't make it before. Mycroft might think his quiet presence is enough on evenings like this, but then Mycroft doesn't know that he can have anything else.

Sighing quietly, John presses a kiss into his lover's hair and turns back to the TV. He blocks out the comedy on screen (Mycroft's tastes lean towards the dark comedies and John finds that unaccountably adorable) and thinks through his plans for tomorrow. They've just come off of a case, so Sherlock will be busy catching up on food and sleep and while John had been looking forward to the same, it's a worthy sacrifice. 

Mycroft's body twitches and he snuffles; definitely asleep then. John smiles and tightens his hold a little.

He'll call Bill in the morning; he's sure the other man won't mind him using the emergency key and then he'll arrange with Anthea to surprise Mycroft at lunch (he's been with Mycroft for over a year now and he still doesn't know his assistant's real name, it has become something of a personal challenge).

Plans made, John settles down to watch the last ten minutes of the episode. He just hopes Mycroft forgives him.

++

The thing is, John knows that there are only two ways that Mycroft is going to be able to open up and tell him everything about his work life. 

(There was a day, near the beginning of their relationship where they were still trying to figure out how the parts of themselves fit together, when Mycroft called John from the office and cancelled their date night five minutes after it should have started. John had been suitably understanding, if a little concerned, and had promised that he didn't mind and that Sherlock was out, trying out another disguise so he would just enjoy the quiet of the flat, maybe read that book he had bought on a whim last week, it was all fine, really. 

When Mycroft had hung up, John had looked at his phone for a moment and then pulled at the cuff of his ironed shirt. An alarm went off in Sherlock's room and something not unlike a hiss of gas (and _now_ the Consulting Detective's text made a lot more sense) sounded from the same direction. John decided to follow Sherlock's instructions and 'not stick around' and grabbing his jacket, headed for Mycroft's. The man had to come home sometime, and how late could he be really?

Very late, as it turned out. John had almost fallen asleep on Mycroft's front step, his head resting on the red brick work, when the familiar black car pulled up and Mycroft stepped out.

"John." _He must be tired_ , John had thought, _that sounded like surprise_. By the time John had pushed himself to his feet, Mycroft had unlocked the front door and was holding it open for him, his umbrella dangling from his elbow. "After you."

John bowed through, feeling faintly ridiculous and kicked off his shoes, lining them up beneath the phone table and hanging up his jacket on an arm of the coat rack. 

Mycroft's umbrella had found its way into the umbrella stand and its owner stood beneath the low hall lights and John had looked at him, taken in the wrinkles in his shirt collar that revealed more than the black lines under his eyes and asked the question for the first and only time. "Long day?"

Mycroft had blinked in surprise and nodded once, before straightening up and shaking his head. "I can't talk about it, I'm afraid. Would you care for a drink?" John followed him into the kitchen, thinking the words through.

"What would it take," he asked a few minutes later, a warm mug of spiked hot chocolate between his hands, "for you to be able to tell me?"

Mycroft had looked at him over the top of his own mug and John had become more than a little fascinated with the line of cream on his top lip.

"A higher level of clearance than an RAMC Captain." He answered apologetically, pink tongue darting out to swipe up the cream, "Or for you to become my spouse." he added, and John choked on his next sip, the chocolate burning his airways. 

Mycroft had smiled at him, tired eyes glinting with amusement.

"Might be a bit early for that." John had said eventually, referring to the suggestion of marriage but thinking of the first part of Mycroft's answer too. _Could he?_

"Indeed. And unnecessary at this stage, I should think." When John had looked at him in question, Mycroft drained his mug and stepped close so that his front was pressed warmly against John's back. His arms curled around John's waist and Mycroft rested his cheek on the top of John's head. "It seems that you being here has been enough for now."

John had leant back into the strong presence behind him and continued to sip at his drink. _'For now'_ , Mycroft had said, _enough for now_. John made himself promise that when that was no longer the case he would remember that moment, and make a proper choice.)

Which is why he finds himself standing inside Bill Murray's guest room at eight in the morning, hunting through the boxes the field technician has been storing for him since he got involved with two of the world's most invasive men (moving in with one and falling arse over teakettle for the other) and hoping his memory has served him right and it's all here. He really doesn't feel like trekking all the way up to Harry's if it isn't.

Eventually his fingers strike gold in the second box and he tugs the small black case out, trying not to bring everything else packed on top of it out at the same time. 

The lid is a little worse for wear for the manhandling, the suede lined with scratches. John doesn't particularly care; he picked the case up in a charity shop three days after his last debriefing, it holds no significance whatsoever for him, it's the three things inside that are important.

The dog tags don't shine as bright as they used to, rubbing against his skin day after day, but the emblem on them, the secret message between John and his superiors, can still be seen as clear as the day he was handed them. He picks them up, running the tip of his finger over the imprint and feeling the familiar grooves, before slipping the chain over his head and tucking them beneath his shirt.

His left hand shakes a little as he reaches for the next item. He frowns at it and thinks of the tense line of Mycroft's shoulders and the reason he's doing this. When he holds up the gun, his hand is steady again.

It isn't all that different to look at from the one in his wardrobe at the flat, but to John the difference couldn't be greater. 

He gave back all of his weapons when he was discharged, everything but the two hand guns. The one at home has been in his possession since his days as a cadet when he still wasn't sure if he wanted to be a doctor or a soldier and was glad to have found a place to be both. This one, with its motto embossed along the barrel was presented to him with the utmost pomp during a ceremony he thinks Mycroft would have absolutely _adored_. It symbolises John's entire military history far better than any of the files Mycroft has no doubt collected over the years.

He checks the safety before pulling out the cleaning kit from the pocket of his jacket and setting about breaking it completely down, cleaning each component carefully before putting it back together.

By the time he finishes, it's almost twelve and John tucks the handgun into the back of his trousers, wincing as the ghost of his instructor drills into him how dangerous that is, and picks up the black case again. It's lighter now, with just a flimsy booklet at the bottom, its red-brown cover creased and worn. It's strange that something so small is going to be his ticket into Mycroft's world, John thinks as he flips open the passport and his face stares sternly out at him. 

**WATSON  
JOHN HAMISH**

**BRITISH CITIZEN**

it proclaims, just like every other passport John has ever owned. It's oddly fitting that the things that make it special (the data chip and biometrics that John knows will register the moment he takes a step into Mycroft's building carrying it, and if that doesn't draw attention to himself then the gun at his back certainly will) are hidden behind the ordinary (boring) cover. There's a delicious symmetry to it.

John leans backwards and slips it into his jacket pocket, brushing away a few specs of dust that have found their way from the boxes to a black cuff. He packs the boxes back into the cupboard, making a mental note to come back at the weekend with Mycroft's car; there's not going to be any point in trying to keep the rest of it hidden after today and Bill probably deserves to have the space back after all this time.

Sliding into his jacket, John takes a deep breath and steels himself. It'll take him about thirty minutes to get to Mycroft's office by tube, that should be just enough time to pull the old John-three continents-Watson façade back around himself and still have time to recreate the still-lake surface to his thoughts he's going to need if he's to go up against a lot of power obsessed officials.

He just hopes he doesn't run into anyone he knows on the way, explaining away the change in his demeanour, not to mention his clothing choice, would be an uncomfortable conversation at best.

++

The first thing Mycroft thinks when he returns to his office is that he's about to be fired. And then rational thought returns and reminds him that there are a hundred reasons for his boss, his boss's boss and _oh dear lord is that The Director? _to be holding some kind of meeting in his office while he's out taking mid-morning tea with the head of security for the Prince of Wales. Well, perhaps not a hundred reasons, but he has just begun to flick through them, filtering out the least likely (and the frankly fantastical, it might be a good idea to schedule a day off soon) when he spots a familiar flash of blonde hair and he wonders if they'll at least let him recover his umbrella before they escort him from the building.__

Mycroft shakes his head at himself and draws in a deep breath; what a lot of nonsense. John isn't _Sherlock_ , at worst Mycroft will have a few weeks of smirks and knowing smiles, at best they'll look at him and wonder what he has that has drawn the interest of someone like John Watson.

"Gentleman." Mycroft says, his voice carefully level. "John." He adds as the small group turns to him, revealing a surprisingly comfortable looking version of his lover.

Surprising because not only is John looking far too happy to have been discovered making small talk with Mycroft's superiors, but he is doing it in a sharp black suit that fits him in a way that even his tightest of t-shirts don’t. Mycroft can practically hear the rush of his arousal as it pools low in his belly.

"Hello Mycroft." John smiles the special smile that he reserves just for Mycroft, but there's something different about his voice, a hard edge Mycroft hasn't heard before. "How is security at Highgrove these days?" Mycroft's heart does a dangerous skip in his chest. John shouldn't know about that. In fact, John _hadn't_ known about that when Mycroft left him in bed this morning. He narrows his eyes at his lover, finally catching the mischievous light in the corner of John's eyes.

"Fine." He answers, wishing he had his umbrella in his hand. 

"Good. Oh, I believe you all know each other?" John seems to remember the other people in the room and he waves a lazy hand between them and Mycroft. "Wait, of course you do." He adds, and he sounds like _John_ in a way that John hasn't so far. 

Mycroft tries to make his brain work the way it has since he was three years old and he predicted the trajectory of Margaret Thatcher's rise and fall (what he actually said was "the lady in the hat's going to run the country and everyone will hate her" but he prefers to paraphrase where possible). John is trying to show him something; that he's comfortable here, but why?

The Director (the capitals are applicable because no one knows his name and even Mycroft has only known of him from whispered conversation in the corridors of Whitehall) is looking at John with the oddest mix of pride and appreciation and Mycroft's brain finally clicks back on track in time to notice that in less than three minutes the man is going to touch John. Mycroft's John.

His lips thin and John chuckles. "Did you know, I used to play squash with Derek, and now he works just a few floors up from you, how unlikely is that?" John chuckles.

"Incalculably." Mycroft says, _really, Derek?_ No wonder he never tells anyone.

"Mmm." John's entire posture is ramrod straight. "And Thomas here served in Iraq with me, he was saying." John looks at Mycroft's boss and because Mycroft knows John as well as he does (even this new, surprising John) he knows that John has a perfect recall of _Thomas_ and is actually playing power games. The realisation shouldn't turn him on as quickly as it does.

"That's right, Sir." _Oh._ Mycroft blinks as Thomas all but salutes his lover. _Oh, good God._ He needs to get it together before he embarrasses himself.

John looks at his watch and frowns. "If you'll excuse us gentlemen, Mycroft and I have reservations for lunch." He smiles politely, probably to soften the obvious dismissal and then there is a flurry of handshakes and back-patting, Derek says; _'Perhaps we can catch up later, John'_ and John clasps Mycroft's wrist and pulls him towards the door. 

"Anthea picked the place." He says, as they walk out on three of the most powerful people in the British Government. "She promises me their rosemary bread is the best she's had, so we're definitely getting some of that, and if you fancy it, we'll share something sickeningly sweet and you can tell me all about the trouble the Americans have been giving you, because I don't particularly trust Thomas's version to be unbiased when it comes to them." 

Mycroft manages to control himself enough to walk beside John and not continue to be dragged like a five year old through a supermarket and it's only when they step outside that John finally drops his rigid posture and droops a little into his usual stance, shooting a sheepish glance back at him.

Mycroft leans back against the stonework, one hand in front of his mouth and laughs until the car pulls up.

++

It's almost ten and they're in little more than their underwear and watching the Life of Brian, hands clasped together and resting on John's lap. Rather, _John_ is watching the Life of Brian, Mycroft has found it almost impossible to focus on the outrageous comedy when he has the newly revealed puzzle that is his lover, sitting pressed up against his side.

Mycroft had known from their first meeting that there was more than met the eye (or the surveillance cameras, as it were) when it came to John. Still, he had thought that by now any secrets the man still had revolved around embarrassing childhood stories and the stuffed Paddington Bear that had somehow found its way onto the bookshelf in Mycroft's bedroom that did not appear there by itself no matter how many times John claimed the bear really was that resourceful in the original stories.

Still, Mycroft can't find it in himself to feel angry. A little bitter, perhaps, that he missed something so huge about his partner, but the feeling is mitigated by knowing that Sherlock _still_ doesn't know and that John has promised never to let on that Mycroft had to be told, instead agreeing that when Mycroft decides to reveal all to Sherlock, John will be in the kitchen making tea and will _not say a word_. Of course, that won't be for another few decades yet, state secrets and all, but the thought of Sherlock being kept in the dark all that time tickles Mycroft in a big way.

The talented bout of oral sex he received when he got home didn't hurt matters either.

Mycroft twirls the tag in his hand round and around, careful not to pull the chain too much and strangle John. He has no idea what the symbol represents and John has been irritatingly closed lip about it. 

Of course, he understands the significance of the motto on the new gun that is currently sitting in his desk drawer (it explains the little nostalgic smile John always has when they've caught re-runs of Only Fools and Horses late at night) and his chest puffs with pride whenever he thinks of John as part of that elite group of soldiers. It makes him want to write to Mummy just to tell her he's caught himself an SAS officer. And she had been so pleased that John was a Doctor.

He shakes away the thought, trying not to act like the twelve year-old girl his little brother often compares him to these days and rubs his thumb over John's tags again. 

John copies the movement, rubbing his thumb over the skin between Mycroft's thumb and finger on the hand in his lap and Mycroft looks up to find his lover's blue eyes watching him. He's so much more relaxed tonight; he could never have guessed what a difference is made by no longer having to keep so many secrets from this man.

"What would it take for you to be able to tell me?" Mycroft asks, giving a pointed tug on the tags and the softness of John's smile tells him he has picked up on the reference of the old conversation.

"Marriage." John says simply and Mycroft nods, ignoring the flutter in his heart and the nervous energy that has filled John's body. They look away and Mycroft drops John's dog tags finally, the metal pieces clicking as they land on his chest.

He hooks his foot beneath John's on the floor, their ankles locking together.

"Okay." He says, as the credits start to roll on the film and Eric Idle sings about the brighter side of life. "If we must."

John looks at him and Mycroft looks back, hiding nothing. For a moment, John's smile is almost blinding and the stretch at the corners of his mouth tell Mycroft that his own smile must be verging on idiotic at the very least and then John's lips cover his own and all he can think about is the very taste of John and the feel of John's tongue against his and how he could be happy if he could just crawl into John's mouth and never leave. John nibbles at Mycroft's bottom lip as he pulls back, his tongue laving at the indents to sooth them.

They settle back down again, only this time Mycroft holds up his arm and John slides beneath it, leaning his back against Mycroft's side.

"Just one thing." John says, tangling their fingers back together and laying them over his stomach. "Let me tell Sherlock."

All things considered, that's probably for the best. Mycroft nods, "Of course, John."

"Wow." John gasps with exaggerated awe. "Are you going to be this accommodating when we're married or just during the engagement?"

Mycroft hides his smile in John's hair. "I'm sure I have no idea to what you are referring, my dear." 

"It was the suit, wasn't it? Perhaps I'll wear it more often from now on if it has this kind of effect on you."

Mycroft growls at that and nips at John's ear while parts of him perk up eagerly.

John laughs, relaxing deeper into Mycroft's side, his thumb stroking circles into the back of Mycroft's hand. The DVD starts up again and Mycroft groans.

"Not again, John."

John snorts and turns around, pressing down on Mycroft's shoulders until he is bent back against the sofa arm. "Let's see if you're still saying that in ten minutes, shall we?"

Ten minutes later, Mycroft most definitely isn't.

**Author's Note:**

> The SAS's motto is "who dares, wins" an often repeated phrase by David Jason's character Del-boy in Only Fools and Horses.


End file.
